


Under My Skin

by BlossomofFireandRain



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bulges and Nooks, Emotional Manipulation, Mind Control, Multi, Non Consensual, Rape, Sadstuck, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Tentabulges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:46:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlossomofFireandRain/pseuds/BlossomofFireandRain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day in the life of the Dolorosa aboard Mindfang's ship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under My Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind the tags, and watch out.

Your fingers twitch as you sew along the seam.

You ignore it. If you ignore it, it's not real, right?

Deep in your mind you feel the claws digging in, pushing all the warning signs to the front of your mind. She's dug so far into your head, sunk her hook so well, that you always feel it. Maybe it has something to do with your rainbow drinker tendencies, maybe it's just her, but the leash on you works both ways, even though it was never intended to. You feel her laugh in your head, and continue to pretend you're back at the halls, before anything happened.

The blue and black fabrics settle in their shape under your hands. The murmur of water, and the distant sound of the crew working create an atmosphere that lies of serenity. She's in a good mood, you can feel it, cackling as she gives orders and celebrates a good haul. She'll be here soon. 

Honestly, you like it better when she wants it black. When she wants you to fight it, wants you to be defiant. You can just look at her like a naughty grub, and some of the time it actually works. When she wants it red though......

Your hands shake a bit, and you ignore the whys of it, and simply concentrate on sewing neatly, needle flicking in and out of the fabrics, light glancing off it almost hypnotically. If you just....Pretend..... You could be back at the abbey, sewing between your shifts, creating when you weren't resigned to the state of things. Before you found a little red grub wandering the back halls where it wasn't supposed to be.

You were supposed to kill any grubs you found back in the halls. They weren't supposed to get back there, and it was just weeding out the ones that couldn't figure things out, or so they said. You certainly weren't supposed to pick them up and cuddle them.When you'd first seen it, you'd thought it was a little maroon in the low light, scuttling curiously through the area, and though you weren't supposed to, it wouldn't have been the first time you'd snuck a grub back to the caverns when your shift came. Dimly you remember sitting as a brown grub rolled in a box with a empty spool, intent on catching it and making it stay still. You snuck that one in, easily as it stayed quiet under your cloak. You had hoped it would make it out of there, as it scuttled into the darkness, full of hissing and tiny growls.

It hadn't been a maroon. It'd been unnatural, glaring, bright red pulsing under its translucent skin. You should have culled it. Instead you hide it up your sleeve, and hurried back to your room. You managed to keep it hidden for a while, teaching it to hide until you called it, keeping it quiet while it played.

In hindsight, you'd been ridiculously stupid.

You burn as you try to scrub away the anger at him. It hadn't been Kankri's fault. He hadn't asked to be a mutant. You feel shame and self-loathing well up inside of you. What kind of guardian had you been, that you could hate your grub now? 

The anger keeps you distracted from things, even dimming the hook in your mind down. So it's a surprise when you feel cold fingers link around your shoulders, and a cool nose nuzzle against your ear.

"My good little seamstress, sewing away while we all celebrate. It's okay, I remembered you, baby."

You try not to jump. She presses kisses to your neck, and you smell the intoxicant on her breath, sour and sharp. You hold yourself still and try to keep sewing around her. You are a rock. You are ice. You are a ferocious rainbow drinker.

Her hand slips down to your right rumble sphere.

"What? Not going to celebrate with me? We got a nice haul, even some pretty grubspun fabrics for you to make into stuff. You like that, right?"

Silence is your best answer. You have learned that there is really no good way to answer her, to argue or to try to dissuade, so instead you sit. You feel her frown against your shoulder.

When you feel yourself turn and pull her into a kiss, you can't say you're surprised. Everything has patterns, even trolls, and hers demand that you want her like she wants you to.

It's all emulated romance, the tossing aside of your work, needle falling to the floor, clothes pulled and stretched as you both try to get them off, a tumble onto the concupiscent platform, hands groping and feeling, the sliding of thighs as you loosen up. Inside yourself, however, you feel as cold as stone. She twists your bulges together, and you moan.

She likes to hear you beg for it, pant and writhe. She wants to unravel you until you fit her wants. So when your hands take your folds and spread them, pleading for her to fill you, it's not a surprise.

You're used to this.

But even so, when you're as deep in her as she is you, you feel her warp your mind. The control over your body is not nearly as scary as the control over your wishes. It's harder for her, forces her to work at it more, but she does manage to break through a bit, making you confused to whether you want her to hold you, or fall to your claws. You gasp and twitch, as she calls you her bulgeslut, her little red lover, and scream when you pail together.

When you lay there afterwards, she cuddles you, in a complete mockery of redrom, stroking your hair and calling you beautiful. The stains between you thighs make it seem so real, and you feel a deep-welling panic that asks if maybe you really do want her. Maybe you encouraged it, maybe she knew.

From your place on the platform you can see stains. Like incriminating footprints they trail from the table to the platform, green and slick, blue and cold. Sometimes you feel as if you are coated with them, below your skin, where you can't scrub it off. You wonder at times what color it would be if you could see it, this invisible layer of dirt. Blue or jade?

When she leaves you, you'll sew your seams, clean the room, and tsk over the mess as if it wasn't connected to you. You'll dream about a room with jade walls, delicate accents, curved and sinuous, and a comfortable pile of fabric. You'll think about little grubs getting where they shouldn't, and how nice it was to sit and work while one played by itself at your feet. You'll think about your lovers among the jadebloods, the level of refinement and calmness expected from all of you. You'll just sew, and plan for the next visit from her kismesis, as you work on the insult to fashion for him.

Maybe this time he'll finally lose his temper on you.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at NuclearVampire.tumbrl.com


End file.
